


Wherein Bones is exhausted and Jim is a sneaker

by kayliemalinza



Series: Rambleverse [16]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Academy Years (Rambleverse Timeline), Five Times Kirk Stole a Kiss (Rambleverse subseries), Kayliemalinza's Rambleverse, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Platonic Kissing, Sleep Deprivation, Stolen Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-28
Updated: 2010-03-28
Packaged: 2017-11-13 14:39:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayliemalinza/pseuds/kayliemalinza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...meaning that Jim is sneaky, not that he has been turned into a shoe. #3 of the Five Stolen Kisses sub-series of Rambleverse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wherein Bones is exhausted and Jim is a sneaker

Jim stands outside Bones' dorm room at 0800 on a Wednesday and leans on the buzzer. He doesn't know if it's an on-week or an off-week for Bones' overnight clinic shifts, but it doesn't matter. If it's an off-week, Bones will eventually come to answer the door, squint-eyed and cranky from having to dig himself out from under the three quilts he has on his bed.

Those quilts cause Jim to be concerned about Bones' rationality and capacity for adaptation (both things which are important to being a Starfleet officer, to say nothing of being a member of a successful species) because despite clear scientific and anecdotal evidence that a single microfleece blanket is warmer than even five quilts, Bones simply won't be persuaded to switch. Every once in a while, after a full evening of bitching about the San Francisco fog and its "damned supernatural ability to chill a man beyond all reasonable expectations," Bones will compromise and sandwich a fleece between the quilts where it can't be seen. He still becomes enraged at the idea of wearing socks to bed, however, so Jim can't quite yet mark his progress as "satisfactory."

All that and it's only October. Jim gets fluttery and excited when he thinks about when winter rolls around and he gets to explain to Bones what a scarf is. San Francisco winters don't call for scarves, maybe, but they can get to Iowa for fifty bucks on the hyper-rail and Jim needs to teach Bones how to build a snowman. It's important.

Anyway, Bones isn't answering the door so Jim figures that it's an on-week and Bones' bed has been empty for a while. Sure enough, two minutes later Bones comes shuffling down the corridor, dead on his feet and smelling like the inside of a locker.

"Good morning, Dr. McCoy!" Jim says brightly.

Bones hovers behind him like a vulture perched on a branch just slightly too bendy to support it. He's swaying. "Are you standing outside my door or somebody else's?" he asks, and Jim nearly doesn't understand a word because his voice is cracked and gravelly like an old-fashioned asphalt road.

"It's your door," Jim assures him.

Bones nods sagely. There's a long stretch of silence where Bones blinks way too slowly and Jim surreptitiously props him up with a shoulder. From this close up, Jim can see the ghost of a mustache peppered greyly above Bones' lip. His eyelids are purplish, shiny, embellished here and there with scraggly capillaries.

Nobody likes the idea of a doctor sleepwalking through a shift, but Jim's seen Bones in doctor-mode, has been his last patient of the night even, and knows that he has the tensile strength of a shuttle's guy-wire. Bones doesn't start to unravel until he's in civvies, shedding the night shift in flakes and crumbs as he plods across campus.

"You know," Jim says casually, "if you enter your quarters, then you can sleep while horizontal. Wouldn't that be fun?"

Bones' scowl is a thing of beauty and suggests that he has horribly misinterpreted—or outright misheard—Jim's cheerful advice. There's no way that will end well (though Jim would probably be amused no matter what) so Jim grabs Bones' hand and presses his thumbprint against the ID pad to unlock and open the door.

"Why you holding my hand," Bones barks out, the way an elderly, asthmatic dog might bark (one of the big breeds, not the yappy kind; Bones would never forgive Jim for comparing him to a yappy dog. He's said so explicitly.)

"'Cause we're such good friends," Jim answers, and pulls his such good friend gently through the doorway. Bones stumbles halfway through but luckily Jim is fast like a fox and rotates him to fall against the wall instead of thin air (after which point he would, presumably, fall to the floor.) For a second it looks like Bones is going to slide down and hit the floor anyway, stubborn bastard that he is, so Jim steps forward. He presses himself against Bones, chest down to knees, and no-one's falling anywhere.

Bones narrows his eyes. "Why you kissing me," he growls.

"I'm not kissing you, Bones," Jim says. It's true. 'Kissing' implies a continuous action, in which case it would be impossible for Bones to grump at him and for him to respond, so clearly they are not kissing. Not currently. "Look at you, Bones," he says with a note of concern. "You're so tired you're imagining things."

Bones lets out a sigh that tickles at Jim's face, moist and sour. "Guess you're right," he says.

Jim smiles, mostly to console Bones, but also, in just a tiny part, because he can still feel the rasp of stubble on his lips.


End file.
